Suicide Highway. Don Pendleton

killed, and who could fight back.

      For the second part, he and his team were in Afghanistan to look for the same men she was seeking.

      It was one thing for Israel to launch rockets into Palestinian towns. It was another for them to send in men to slaughter the children and wives of freedom fighters as if they were no more than dogs.

      Haytham had his orders.

      The men who were responsible for the deaths in the Shafeeq Refugee camp had to die. The blood of brothers, sisters, wives, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews had been spilled by merciless fusillades of bullets. The camp of compassion and tenderness had been turned into an abbatoir by cowardly men who had swooped down on the unarmed, the sick and the starving.

      Haytham wanted to pull the trigger and wipe out the Jewish woman, but he knew that for now, she was an ally in that she would have a better chance of tracking down the killers. She had contacts, she knew about hideouts and she would be relentless, if the orders that were intercepted were true.

      Haytham frowned.

      He hated to admit that the Mossad would actually be interested in hunting down the men he had been ordered to kill. It meant that there were Jews who were actually interested in justice, even for the families of their sworn enemies.

      It happened every so often—these moments of doubt. In the young fighter his superiors saw a powerful warrior ready to burst free, but one who was not willing to fight recklessly in the street. Instead of supervising a suicide bombing, he was more likely to be involved in direct conflict with armed Israeli troops.

      Hamas needed all types of fighters. As long as Haytham’s dedication was unflinching when it came to facing enemy soldiers, then he had a task.

      He was seeking justice against a band of savage killers.

      He watched as others assembled around Geren. American soldiers, heavily armed and capable of wiping him out if they detected him, flanked her. They kept the muzzles of their rifles aimed at the ground, but their eyes swept the street as others came out to greet them. Two more men, one an Afghan, the other a tall, lean, grim soldier dressed in black, joined Geren and the American Special Forces troops.

      On the street, there were easily a dozen people, all but Geren, the tall wraith in black and the Afghan were toting rifles and handguns. Whatever opportunity Haytham had had to strike a blow against the Israelis and America was gone. Twelve bodies were too many even for the 30-round magazine of anAK-47 on full-auto. He’d cause at least one or two deaths, and several injuries, but the others would dive for cover.

      And with that many guns present, Haytham would never have the opportunity to reload.

      In a way, the young eagle was relieved.

      With temptation cut off, he had retained his window of opportunity. The woman would still be able to provide him with intelligence regarding the killers at Shafeeq.

      He hunkered down, watching and waiting.

      SPECIAL FORCES CAPTAIN Jason Blake watched as Wesley and Montenegro returned from their surveillance mission with Theresa Rosenberg and the newcomers in tow.

      “Care to explain yourself?” Blake asked as the two intruders reported to him. He rose, as a sign of respect for the alleged “Colonel Stone’s” rank, but he restrained a salute. Salutes were more appropriate for safe Army bases stateside. Out in the real shit, such acknowledgment of rank could mean the difference between observation and a sniper’s bullet.

      “Not beating around the bush, are you?” Bolan asked.

      “I’m waiting for an explanation why a full-bird colonel is running around the desert picking fights with former Taliban enforcers, without alerting me.”

      “I didn’t know you had forces in the area,” Bolan answered.

      Blake shook his head. “No. Ignorance of my being here shouldn’t be a case. Not if you’re on the ball enough to have the little brother of one of our biggest mujahideen allies guiding him into a hot spot. At the very least, Aleser Khan should have let me know that someone was looking around in my backyard. Right, Laith?”

      Bolan looked at Blake, then the young Afghan.

      “My brother was sending word to you in the morning, Captain, so as not to disturb your sleep, nor to break curfew,” Laith responded.

      “And you broke curfew?” Blake asked in challenge.

      Laith smiled confidently. “I was accompanied by an American military officer.”

      “An alleged American military officer,” Blake growled. “This guy has ID, but he has no official paperwork or orders. I’ve radioed back to headquarters, and nobody’s heard shit that some colonel was sweeping through on any form of inspection.”

      “The expression is ‘need to know,’” Bolan stated.

      “I do need to know. I’d like to know if an American, civilian or military, is running around killing locals and stirring up a hornet’s nest of retaliation against my A-Team,” Blake said angrily. “As it is, we had shots fired, and more than likely people saw American soldiers leaving natives, even if they were ex-Taliban, dead.”

      “I’m on an investigation. Asking permission would take time I really can’t afford,” Bolan replied.

      “And I’m on a peacekeeping mission. Having some wild-assed nutrod running around on a vendetta is something I can’t afford,” Blake said. “I’m going to run some checks on who you are, Colonel Stone. Until then, your investigation is on hold. Hand over your weapons,” Blake ordered.

      Laith tensed, but the big American simply rested his hand on the young Afghan’s shoulder. “No need to pick a fight with the U.S. Army, Laith.”

      “According to the law, I can keep my weapons as long as ammunition and gun are separated,” Laith said. He pulled the magazines from his pistol and rifle and ejected the chambered rounds. A bullet bounced across Blake’s desk, but the Afghan didn’t bother picking it up. He simply slung the AK and glowered. “Unless you’d like to explain to my older brother why you had me arrested for following the letter of the agreement we made.”

      Blake clenched his jaw.

      Laith took a deep breath, exhaling hard out flared nostrils.

      “I was addressing Colonel Stone,” Blake said, recovering his control of the situation. “And the next time you violate weapons policy in my camp, you will be thrown into the stockade for a very long stay.”

      Laith smirked in defiance, but Blake was satisfied he’d made his point. Controlling the young lion wasn’t an easy task, but he was glad to have the youth mollified for the time being. It was the tall, rangy American who gave the Special Forces captain pause.

      Even though Stone acquiesced to Blake’s orders, he knew it was only lip service. The stranger no more intended to stay on a short leash and behave himself than Laith did. At least by confiscating the big man’s guns, the captain had managed to slow him down, somewhat.

      Blake watched the man unload his arsenal. The pile of weapons grew until finally, almost as an afterthought, a tiny little black, five-and-a-half-inch-long pocket pistol and three slender magazines were placed on the desk.

      Blake chuckled. “No, really. I wanted all your guns.” He wondered who this guy could be.

      “Keep your knives,” Blake said, picking up the little black pocket pistol. It was a .32-caliber Beretta Tomcat. Not much in terms of firepower compared to the monstrous, eleven-inch-long .44 Magnum Taurus it was placed beside, it was firepower that would mean the difference between being unarmed and helpless and having a fighting chance.

      He handed over the Tomcat. “Take your Beretta too. I don’t need to have you completely helpless. But the thing’s so puny, you won’t be assaulting armed gangs of Taliban reservists.”

      Bolan plucked the gun and his spare magazines from Blake’s hand. “Thank you,”